


Questions in Morse

by chromecrow



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Blood, Brain Surgery, Head Injury, Injury, M/M, Surgery, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromecrow/pseuds/chromecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short thing with Morsov and his close companion, Serge. Morsov has a concussion. Occurs before the events of Fury Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions in Morse

“You’re going to stay up with me, right?”  
Morsov’s voice was so soft Serge could barely pick out the words over the incessant background thrum of the Citadel. As he watched the orange shafts of light creep up the wall of the Organic Mechanic’s inner chamber and disappear into the muted blues of the evening, Serge could clearly hear the ratcheting of heavy chains, distant hammer strikes on metal, and a hubbub of voices and shouts muffled by layers of sandy rock. The groans and sobs of the bloodbags in their cages drifted in through the high glassless windows that adjoined the Organic’s chambers to the Blood Shed. Noise was a constant companion in the Citadel, ebbing and changing as day broke and night fell, but always present. Aside from the clamor, Serge and Morsov were alone.  
“Of course I’ll stay up. Can’t have you drifting off on me,” said Serge, trying to sound gruff and casual, hating the tremor in his voice and the ache in his throat.  
“I don’t want to die soft,” whispered Morsov.  
“You’re not dying soft, grease rag,” replied Serge. “You got a rap on the head is all. We’re both going to Valhalla. I won’t have it any other way.”  
Serge could see it strained Morsov to focus his eyes. The tendons stood out from his neck with the effort as his eyes rolled beneath sagging lids before they settled on Serge’s face.  
“Serge. Where are you. I can’t—“  
Serge leaned in close and gently pressed his brow to Morsov’s temple. Morsov’s skin was hot to the touch, and sticky where fever sweat had blended with white clay, black grease, and blood.  
“I’m right here.”  
“You’ll stay? Don’t let me sleep.”  
“I’ll stay.” Serge cupped Morsov’s face in his hands. Morsov shuddered.  
“You’re all cold,” he muttered.  
“No, idiot. You’re running too hot,” said Serge.  
“Radiator’s busted?” Morsov asked.  
“That’s right,” said Serge, “only Organic says we’re got to keep you running.”  
“Doesn’t make any sense.” Morsov leaned into Serge’s hand. Serge felt his hot breath between his fingers.  
“Organic’s orders,” replied Serge, “You can take it up with him tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”  
“Tomorrow,” Morsov sighed, “That’s a long time.”  
“You’ll pull through,” said Serge with more confidence than he felt.  
Morsov turned his head to face him and strained to prop himself up on his elbows. Serge braced the back of his lolling neck.  
“I’m--,” Morsov rasped, groping over the side of the bench. Serge realized what was going to happen and dodged out of the way a split second before Morsov vomited. A thin stream of watery bile spattered into the oil pan that rested next to the bench. Serge braced Morsov’s shoulders as he heaved and when he was done, Serge eased him back onto the pile of clothes that served as his pillow. Involuntary tears had cut tracks in the white clay on Morsov’s face and the swollen lump on the side of his forehead was oozing blood again.  
Serge dribbled a little water from his flask onto a rag and set about cleaning up Morsov’s face. He gingerly dabbed at the edges of the wound, cursing himself every time Morsov flinched when the cool cloth brushed the hot, swollen skin. He wiped the gray from around Morsov’s eyes and the drool and vomit from his chin. Serge trickled a little water between Morsov’s cracked lips, taking care to prop up his head so he wouldn’t choke. Morsov coughed nonetheless, but managed to swallow. Serge let him lay back down. Morsov’s chest heaved. Serge thought he was going to vomit again and reached for the oil pan before he realized Morsov was crying. It was an ugly sound, weak and high, like a flooded engine sputtering to start. Morsov’s lips were pulled back over gritted teeth.  
“Hurts,” he whimpered, “Head. Hurts.”  
“Organic,” Serge shouted over his shoulder, “Organic!” The Organic Mechanic shuffled over to Morsov’s section of bench and crouched down, taking his chin in his hand and turning Morsov’s head to look at the angry, red swelling that was already beginning to encroach on Morsov’s left eyelid. He pressed a thumb to the wound and Morsov screamed like a dog.  
“He’s worse,” said Serge. “Is there anything you can give him?”  
The Organic clicked his tongue and shook his head. “At this point? Waste of morphine.”  
“Is there anything else you can do? We’ve lost too many lancers lately, and he’s a good one,” said Serge, noticing, but not caring how desperate he sounded. He was painfully aware of how Morsov appeared to be insensate. His eyes had rolled back white and he was shivering like a flag in a sandstorm.  
“Please. He’s—he’s my friend.”  
The Organic gave a small snort and shot Serge a look. “Oh, I know about that.”  
“Can’t you do anything to take the fever or the swelling down?”  
“You don’t get a fever from a knock on the head,” said the Organic, shaking his head. “Not usually at least. Most likely it’s just—what do you war boys call it?—the night fevers trying to finish him off when he’s down. It’s only a matter of time now.”  
“Please,” begged Serge, “can you do something? Anything. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll go on a run. Get you supplies.”  
“Supplies, huh?” the Organic scoffed, “You just gonna go out and find me some new needles and syringes out in the waste?”  
Serge stammered. “I—I mean, yeah. I can try. I can find something.”  
“’Try’ doesn’t stitch a wound,” said the Organic. He stood to leave, wiping his hands on his vest.  
“Bloodbags!” cried Serge, “You always need fresh donors, right?”  
The Organic Mechanic halted in the doorway and turned to face him. “Go on,” he said, crossing his bare arms over his chest.  
“I can join a hunt team,” explained Serge, “Run down wanderers. I’ll make sure to bring them back in good shape, too. No rough handling.” He looked up at the Organic hopefully.  
The Organic tugged on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Well,” he said after a long moment’s consideration, “there might be something I could try to let the pressure off. But you will bring me bloodbags, or neither you nor Morsov here, provided he lives another day, will be getting one next time you drag your sorry, powdered arses into my Blood Shed. Agreed?”  
Serge nodded fervently. “Yes. Agreed.”  
“Right then. Let’s get cracking,” said the Organic with an unsettling grin. He turned to the rusted set of cabinets on the wall and began rummaging among the bottles and containers.  
“What are you going to do?” asked Serge as the doctor doused his hands in a sharp-smelling dark liquid from a tinted plastic bottle. It looked like blood in the dark.  
“You are going to hold him down,” said the Organic Mechanic with poorly disguised relish, gesturing with the rag with which he was drying his hands to Morsov who sweated and panted on the bench. “Then I’m going to open the hood.”  
Serge felt the blood drain from his face. “Open the--?”  
The Organic chuckled. He strode over to a shelf and pulled down a toolbox. “Don’t blow a gasket. Just a burr hole or two.” He pulled out a hand-crank drill and screwed on a saw-edged circular bit the diameter of Serge’s thumb. “To let the pressure off, like you said.”  
“Will it work?” asked Serge, not really wanting to know the answer.  
“I dunno,” replied the Organic, straightening his head lamp, “I’ve never done one before. Right. Get on his chest, pin his arms with your knees and hang on to his head. And I mean keep him still. If he thrashes around, this drill goes straight through his brains and you’ll have to find somebody else to play with your lance. Got it?”  
“Yeah,” said Serge, licking the sweat from his lips. He clambered up onto the bench and straddled Morsov’s chest, locking Morsov’s elbows with his knees. With a sickening lurch, he was forcibly reminded of other occasions on which his knees had been wrapped around Morsov’s body. He had been shaking then, too. But Morsov had been laughing and his breathlessness had not been due to pain…  
Serge shook his head to clear it and placed a hand on either side of Morsov’s head, at the base of his skull. He locked his thumbs under Morsov’s cheekbones. In another life he was bending down to kiss him. Morsov, in his stupor, seemed to realize what was happening. He whimpered and tried to squirm, but Serge was strong and held him fast. The Organic smeared more of the dark liquid onto Morsov’s hairless scalp. In the beam of the Organic’s head lamp, Serge could see it was a deep orange. The Organic gave an extra splash to the site of the injury and pushed a rag between Morsov’s teeth when he cried out.  
“Imagine he’ll still want to have a tongue if he makes it out of this,” said the Organic. He rested the bit of the drill on the skin of Morsov’s forehead and looked up at Serge. “Ready?”  
Serge blinked and nodded, bracing his elbows as best he could.  
“Geronimo,” said the Organic Mechanic and started to drill.


End file.
